Fix You
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Series 2 AU. After she is absent from the hospital all afternoon, Richard finds Isobel crying; she has had the worst news she could possibly have recieved.
1. Chapter 1

**For Jayneysuk.**

Unaccountably, she was nowhere to be found for the entire afternoon, despite both the hospital and the convalescent home being as busy as ever. He thought irritably that her highly inconvenient unexplained absence proved just what she'd been telling him for months, in not so many words; he was pushed to manage without her. He realised that she was very good at reading his mind so that what he needed next was always ready before he had to ask for it, and it was only now that he had to do without it that he really noticed. As soon as the busyness that usually arose at about three o'clock in the afternoon when any new patients would arrive had died down he set about trying to find her.

He found her in the office that they shared, sitting at her desk which faced the window and looked out over the hospital garden. She did not turn around, she gave no indication that she had heard the door open at all. For a moment he stood in the doorway watching her figure hunched slightly in her chair, still feeling his irritation with her because of the trouble she had caused him by not being present, and now that she did not acknowledge him even more so. He waited a few seconds longer, and when she still did not respond to him, he moved into the room to stand beside her, looking down at her in profile.

And he saw that she was crying. Able to see her face in profile he clearly beheld a tear trickling slowly down her soaked cheek, her fist loosely curled and pressed against her trembling lips to prevent herself from sobbing. Irritated as he had been with her a moment ago, he equally realised that this was certainly not the moment to bring up the matter.

"Mrs Crawley?" he asked nervously, "What ever is wrong?"

As if noticing for the first time that he was there, she looked up at him, visibly shaking. Not wanting to overwhelm her by bearing over her like his, he crouched down beside the desk so that he was shorter than her, daringly taking hold of her hands to try and comfort her and gently turning her around to sit facing him.

"What is the matter?" he asked again.

Once again, she dissolved into tears. Something was badly badly wrong. She was not crying at all elegantly, her beautiful face was contorted with grief as her hands clumsily scooped a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper off the desk in front of her and put it into his hands. Leaning forward onto his knees before her, he began to read the paper. It was a telegram.

_Mrs Crawley, it is with regret that we write to inform you..._

"Oh, Mrs Crawley," he murmured under his breath. He knew very well what was coming next.

_...that a body had been identified as that of your son, Captain Matthew Crawley. He died honourably and in battle._

"Oh God, Isobel," he whispered, putting the telegram down, unable to read any further.

Her hands were pressed over her face, her shoulder quivering. He had never seen her like this before. He had never seen her fall apart like this, and he had hoped he never would. Both to console her and himself, he reached out and drew her into his arms, kneeling between her knees, holding her body tightly against his, her arms tucked between them. She curled over and her head rested on his shoulder. Smoothing his hands up and down her back, he swayed back and forwards to try and soothe her.

By the time he got back up again, the sun had fallen and it was dark.

…**...**

They did not speak as he gently wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, tucking the loose strand of hair at her temple back behind her ear, helping to wrap her up in her coat and scarf, folding up the telegram and putting it into his own pocket so that she wouldn't have to see it again, at least not at the moment. Putting his arm around her, partly to comfort her, partly to steady her and partly to keep her from the cold, he guided her out of the hospital through the back door so as not to attract the attention of the nurses, and out into the wide and cold night.

"I don't want to go to Crawley House," she told him abruptly as they turned left, "Please don't make me go back there. I can't face the thought of having to tell Molesley and Mrs Bird what's happened. And the messages of condolence from the big house might have arrived, they might even be waiting to see me there. They mean well, but I don't want them, I don't want any of them now."

There was silence for a moment. He stood there, wondering what he could reasonably suggest. For him, the ideal was to take her back to his house so that he could keep watch over her; he was intensely worried about her in this state, but he was almost certain she wouldn't be comfortable with that idea. It occurred to him to ask if she would feel better about going back to Crawley House if he came with her. Then;

"Can I stay with you? At your house?" she asked in little more than a whisper, a mixture of timidity and exhaustion, exhaling all of the breath she was holding onto in one deep stream that condensed silver on the cold blue air.

"Of course you can," he replied, tightening his arms around her for just a second before turning back around and leading her towards his house instead, "I'd feel better if you did, I didn't want to leave you alone, anyway," he confessed, "I want to see that you're alright."

When she let out a little sob he realised that he had chosen his words slightly carelessly.

"Sorry," he whispered to her, "I know there's not much chance of that. But you know what I mean."

He thought he felt her head nod slightly against his shoulder. Walking a little more briskly he hurried her over the threshold of his house and into the warmth, shutting the door tightly behind her.

Everything had changed between them, he realised, now that she was here with him like this. They could no longer tell themselves that they were only colleagues. They were friends at the very least. She had asked him for refuge, and he had taken her in without a second thought. Everything had changed between them from the moment he had found her crying and had not left her, as he would have probably done with anyone else, and she had allowed him to see her like that. He was ready to take care of her, he was under no illusions about the fact that he would do anything for her; all that he had to do was to take care that he did not make her uncomfortable. He would do exactly what she wanted, give her anything she needed.

His arms were still holding her up. He suspected she was too much in shock to do anything.

"Let's put your coat on the peg," he told her, gently taking it off her and unwinding her scarf.

When he turned back to her she was standing still, her hands hanging by her sides. Obviously she did not know what to do with herself, she was waiting to be told what to do.

"Isobel," he told her quietly, leading her towards the stairs, "I'm going to run you a bath, you'll feel better for having a wash, and while you're in the bath I'm going to make us some supper. You need to eat," he told her firmly, ready to head off any objection that came, "As soon as you've eaten you can go to bed, but I do insist that you eat."

She only nodded blandly, sitting down on the wicker chair in the bathroom as he turned on the taps.

"You can have my bed for the night," he told her, "I'll sleep in the sitting room." Opening the cupboard, he spotted a problem. "I'm afraid I haven't got a nightdress to offer you, only pyjamas. Is that alright?"

"That's fine," she replied, looking at the floor. Still, he saw the blank look in her eye, and it unnerved him, it broke his heart.

"Isobel," he knelt before her, his hand resting gently on her knee, "Please don't shut me out. I know this is the worst thing that could have happened to you, and I can't possibly imagine how you feel. But if you want to talk, please talk to me. I will do anything to help you, Isobel, you know that, don't you? Anything."

She nodded slowly, the look in her eyes almost more than he could bear. He was reminded of what he had done in the office when they were like this, wrapped his arms around her, and wanted badly to do it again, but this was too intimate a setting. It would unnerve her. He stood up and turned the taps off and place the pyjamas on the lid of the washing basket.

"Have your bath," he told her, "Then come downstairs for something to eat."

**Please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm so glad you like the previous chapter, thank you for the reviews.**

He was leaning over the stove warming them up some soup and toast when she padded into the kitchen, a little shyly. She looked very small and, he was rather loathe to admit it, frightened like that; her exhausted stature seemed to shrink a little in his pyjamas, which were slightly too large for her. While before her eyes had been red and blotchy from tears the bath seemed to have washed all of the colour out of her face, and she appeared pale, her hair hanging loose, damp and limp over her shoulders. He gave her, however, his best attempt at a smile when he saw her. He thought she made her best attempt to return it.

"The soup is just about ready," he told her, "Please, go into the sitting room and make yourself comfortable. I'm afraid I don't have such a thing as a dining table at the moment; I pitched it in when we needed extra desks at the hospital. Isobel," he added as she made to go, "There should be a rug on the back of the settee. Please keep yourself warm."

He was pleased to see, when he brought the food through on a tray, that she had done as he had requested and wrapped herself up. She held her bowl perfectly steadily in her lap, her expression completely stoical all of the time as she ate slowly. It was encouraging that she finished all of her food, however much he felt that perhaps she was just eating out of courtesy to him. He knew he had told her to eat but somehow it was awful to him that she felt the need to put on any kind of show for his benefit.

Also, it occurred to him that up until now his mind had been working very much in the short term. She could not, however much he would like it, stay here forever; what would happen when the time came for her to go home? There would be no one to make sure she ate then, no one for her to pretend for. He took the dish from her, placing it back on the tray, handing her a cup of tea. Only once the tea was settled in her hand did he dare to raise his hand a little, brushing it along the side of her face, trying desperately to communicate his affection to her without frightening her. He wanted to communicate to her that he was not doing any of this out of a sense of duty, but wholly because he wanted to, because before this he hadn't entirely realised the extent to which he cared for her.

However, he needn't have worried. She closed her eyes and leant forward slightly into his touch.

"Isobel," he began, almost shyly, but so used to saying her first name by now that nothing else felt right, "I want you to know that you don't have to pretend, not for me. I know that you're strong, so very strong, but no one is _this_ strong. You can talk to me, you can cry. You can tell me anything you like, you know it won't go any further than this room."

She moved her head a little bit further into his palm, and he felt it dampen with tears, her face moving under his touch as she started to sob. Deftly, he took the cup of tea from her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and drawing her to him so that her head rested on his chest, tucked beneath his chin. This time she sobbed audibly, and he drew his other hand around to caress the side of her face.

"I can't face this, Richard," she told him finally, "I can't face any of this. It isn't right," she continued, hiccoughing a little through her tears, "It's not natural. When my husband died that made me a widow, but there isn't even a word for this because it shouldn't happen. I can't believe it has happened, I can't believe I let it."

"No," he told her firmly, "None of this is your fault in any way."

"I shouldn't have let him volunteer at the start of the war," she protested, "If he hadn't joined up when he did, he wouldn't have been where he was when-..."

"Don't say that," he told her, "You couldn't have stopped him, he knew what he wanted. You did everything humanly possible to protect him."

She was quiet for a few moments, then, slowly, she raised her face to his.

"I don't know what to do, Richard," she told him, "Help me, please. I can't face any of this."

"You don't have to face it," he replied, "Not on your own. You have me, however, whenever you need me."

Without thinking about it he pressed a kiss into her hairline, holding her to him again. He felt her exhale deeply, her chest sinking down to relax against his.

"Stay with me," she whispered, "Stay with me tonight."

He paused for only a second.

"Certainly," he told her, "Just let me find some more bedding, I'll make up a bed for me on the floor and you can have the settee."

"No," she replied shortly, "I mean stay with me in your room. In your bed. I don't want to be alone."

For a moment he was completely taken aback, unable to entirely take in what she was asking him for. Indeed, he wasn't entirely sure what she _was _asking him for.

"Isobel...-" he began slowly, only to find that she cut him off with her lips pressing against his, gently, chastely, but at the same time with no mistaking her meaning.

"Isobel, I can't," he told her abruptly, needing to make himself heard before things went too far for him to be able to stop, "I can't take advantage of you like that. I can't stay with you at all if-..."

"No," she agreed sadly, "I didn't expect you would be able to. You're too good, Richard."

"You know I don't expect anything in return for... this?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she told him firmly, "I just thought you ought to know where I stand with regard to you. That's all," she paused, biting her lip, "Please stay with me."

The note of genuine pleading in her voice broke him, he didn't know why he hesitated for another moment.

"Nothing need happen," she assured him, "I promise you, I'm not going to demand that you comfort me like that. But if you did, in the night, feel the need to make me forget-..." she tailed off, tears streaming down her face again, "Please stay with me."

He got up from the settee, offering his hand to her.

"Come on, then," he told her.

Leading her up the stairs and to his bedroom, he lifted the covers for her first, wrapping them round her to make sure that she was warm. Opening the wardrobe doors, he changed quickly into his pyjamas behind them, before joining her.

He was careful to give her enough space, should she want it, but it was clear that she didn't, shuffling across the bed so that their arms rested together, touching gently. Extending his arms, he drew her more closely into his chest, marvelling in the middle of his sadness at the consummate naturalness with which their bodies fit together. He would hold her all the way through the night.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for the reviews. **

He held her fast and safely. It took a long time for her to go to sleep, and when she finally did he suspected it had more to do with utter exhaustion than anything else, than any semblance of rest. Almost as if his awareness of her was heightened to the extreme, he found he could not go to sleep himself until she was at least settled and even then he only slept lightly some time after her breathing had evened out. Halfway in sleep himself, he kissed her again, lightly, on the forehead; his hands spanning across the middle of her back, hers balled into loose fists, holding onto the front of his pyjamas. He liked it like this; it seemed his instinct to protect her, even physically, was overpowering.

He hadn't expected any sleep at all, and was surprised when he woke to find her fidgeting, shifting in her sleep, her hands moving restlessly against his chest, murmuring incoherently. He wondered for a moment if he should leave her, if perhaps it might pass, but even in the seconds that he lay watching her, her distress grew visibly; the hint of something between a moan and a sob escaped from the back of her throat. Her brow was creased in a thick frown and her hands clenched more tightly onto his pyjama shirt.

"Isobel," he whispered, shaking her arms a little, trying to be gentle but needing to stop her doing this, "Isobel, wake up."

For a moment, she did not, just turning her head abruptly and remaining unconscious. He could feel her body trembling a little under his hands.

"Isobel," he pleaded- he hated seeing her like this, she was so helpless in sleep- "Wake up."

She woke up abruptly, making to sit up but finding herself unable to because of his arms. Her hair was matted from the pressure of her head moving restlessly back and forth, and on her brow he could just make out a mild sheen of perspiration. She was breathless as if she had been running a long way.

"Matthew," she gasped to no one in particular, obviously unaware of her surroundings, "Where's Matthew?"

She turned her eyes wildly towards him, not taking him in at all for a second. But then she did, and little by little he saw it in her face as she remembered how they had come to be in the same bed like this, remembered everything. And just as gradually he saw her crumble.

She sat there half-upright for a moment, staring at the blankets covering their legs. Then a great heaving sob racked through her body. Gently putting his hand on her wild hair, he coaxed her to lie back down, holding her more tightly against his chest; letting her tears soak through his shirt and her shoulders tremble against him.

…**...**

Neither of them fell asleep again for the rest of the night. Isobel was the first to move; when the grey tinge of dawn lit against the pale walls of his bedroom she gently dislodged her limbs from his, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, resting her feet gingerly on the floor. He sat up too, but did not move except to bend his knees a little up to his chest, watching her back intently. Her hair, wild and untidy submerged her shoulders entirely. Her shoulders hunched a little in sadness. He could not guess at what she might be feeling, especially now in the cold light of the morning.

"Isobel-..." he began hesitantly, but she began to speak at the same moment.

"Thank you, Richard," she told him, "For last night. Thank you so very much. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

That statement rang all too true for comfort, he thought. Her voice sounded strained and obviously tired but nevertheless her tone was thoroughly genuine.

"You are very welcome," he answered her in as steady a voice as he could, "I mean it. Whenever you need me. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat, Isobel, I mean that."

For a long moment they just looked at each other, with sad eyes.

"I know you would, Richard," she replied.

There was a heavy pause.

"I wonder," she began slowly, "If I might be excused from the hospital for the morning? There will be things to arrange, and people to see."

"Take as long as you need," he told her, "I wouldn't expect to see you for the rest of the week at least."

"Thank you, but I think it's best if I try to keep busy," she replied, standing up, "May I use the bathroom? I will have to tidy myself up before I go home."

"Of course," he replied.

"Isobel," he blurted out as she reached the doorway, "I mean it, you know. Any time at all. You know where I am."

She nodded hollowly before turning to leave the room. He watched her go, his heart slipping a little in his chest, fighting back the urge to call after her the words that had somehow formed in his head through the night as he held her; _I love you_.

…**...**

That evening, he had settled down in front of the fire with a tumbler of whiskey when he heard a knock at the door. Tired, rubbing his eyes, he got up and made his way to answer it.

As the door swung open the light from the hall fell across Isobel's downcast face.

"Isobel?"

She looked up at him, almost imploringly. In her hand, he noticed, she held a small travelling case.

"I was wondering-..." she began, tailing off and starting again, "You did say any time."

He stood back from the door, making way for her to cross the threshold, closing the door behind her so they stood together in the hall.

"Today was more difficult than I had imagined it would be," she confessed quietly.

He thought of her leaving here this morning, her face lightly powdered, her hair thoroughly tamed, her clothes as straight as if they'd just been pressed. The picture of a woman who wanted to show the world that she had not been beaten; however Richard knew she was the woman who had woke crying in the night. That she was here now did not surprise him in the least. It seemed to him that something- maybe the visitors from the big house, maybe the flowers or the telegrams of condolence- something had been just too much for her.

She looked at him timidly.

"I promise not to make a habit of this," she told him in a sheepish voice, "I promise I'll try."

He wrapped his arms around her.

"Promise me you will make a habit of this," he whispered in her ear.

He heard her breath harshly; pitched somewhere in between a laugh and a sob.

"I want to look after you," he told her, "I can't begin to tell you how brave you are, Isobel, but I still want to be here for you, properly. If you'll let me."

When they broke apart, he saw that she was not fully crying but her eyes looked moist.

"Come on," he instructed, "Come and have a drink and talk to me about it."

**Please let me know what you think. This is a bizarre and terrifying story to write, I am enjoying it but I hope I'm doing alright.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all so much for your reviews and comments, I really appreciate them, and I'm so glad you like this story. **

She turned up at the hospital that day at half past ten; her uniform on, her hair pinned back, her face resolute; beyond any shadow of a doubt there ready to work. Really, knowing her, he shouldn't have been surprised at all. The only visible change to her was the small black band she was wearing on her sleeve, just above the elbow. The nurses' heads turned as she entered the ward, unable to hide their surprise at seeing her. Hovering in the doorway, she looked back, half-defiantly, half-sadly.

"Get back to work, girls," he told them quickly as he made his way past them, towards her, anxious that they might make her uncomfortable. Scanning their faces as he headed down the ward to meet her he noticed that Sybil Crawley's was not among them.

Now he could not really avoid saying anything about her being here, he could not avoid questioning it. At first he had resolved to leave her just for the moment- if she had chosen to come here it was obviously what she thought was for the best- but he could tell that the nurses' reaction had alarmed her slightly, had put her on edge a little bit too much.

"I thought I said I didn't expect you until the end of the week?" he asked her quietly, "Yesterday, I allowed myself to hope for a moment that you were going to be sensible and take me up on that suggestion. Even Sybil's not here."

"Sybil is less use to this sort of thing than I am, she's younger."

He did not verbally push the response that his mind instantly offered, that he really would like to have given; there was a clear discrepancy between losing a distant cousin and losing your only son. His dubiousness must have shown in his face regardless, however, because she continued:

"I told you last night," she replied, still a little defiantly but in a soft tone "I'm better off here than I would be at home- at Crawley House, rather. People come and see me, they try to tell me how sorry they are but don't quite know how to say it to me, and it makes everything feel so much worse. It will be better if I can get away from all of that. Anyway, I want to feel useful. Please let me feel useful."

He considered for a moment.

"Alright," he told her, unable to keep the slight reluctance he still felt out of his tone, "You can stay. If I'm honest, we're pushed to manage without you."

"Thank you," she told him, making to move off down the ward.

"Mrs Crawley," he called after her, using her title as they were in front of patients although it felt funny now.

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson?"

She stopped, and he moved quickly to catch up with her for another brief moment.

"Please take things easily. And worry about yourself before anyone else, there are plenty of other people to worry about the patients."

He watched her walk off down the ward to assume her duties, the small smile of thanks that she gave him lingering with him long after she had gone and he had moved off himself.

…**...**

Increasingly these days it was rare for him to take his break for lunchtime at all, but today he made a point of making use of it. Apart from anything else, at one o'clock he had found wrapped on his desk a large cheese and pickle sandwich, his favourite. It was covered snugly in one of the brown paper bags he kept in his kitchen. Smiling broadly, he picked it up and walked out into the hospital garden, where he knew Isobel usually spent her lunchtimes.

"How can you think to be so good to me?" he asked her incredulously as he approached the bench where she sat looking at the grass, waving his sandwich slightly so she knew what he meant, "With everything on your mind?"

"It was something to keep me busy," she told him, "Manual tasks are good. And I wanted to do something to thank you. However bizarre."

"You don't have to thank me," he told her, not for the first time, "But I'm not complaining. Thank you, it was a nice surprise. How are you feeling?"

"Better," she confessed, "Less in shock. Less as if I've been hit across the chest with something very hard. And not so much as if one of my limbs is missing."

He looked at her for a moment.

"Are you telling the truth?" he asked levelly.

She considered her response.

"Yes," she replied, "In a way. I feel less. I feel numb."

Her voice slipped a little with the confession, as did his resolve. His eyes fixed on the sad outline of her face. She caught him watching her, and gave a small, slightly bitter laugh.

"It's alright," she told him, "It makes the day to day things easier at any rate." She paused for a second, "Richard, you're watching me. What is it?"

"You're so brave," he told her, "I've told you before, I know, but you need to hear it again. You're incredible."

She flushed a little, looking down at her hands.

"No, I'm not," she finally replied, "I just haven't processed anything yet, not properly. In fact, I'm here hiding from the risk of really facing what's happened; that's why I'm not at Crawley House, receiving my condolences like I should be. You wait until I have to really think about it, I'll-... I'll be a mess."

"And I'll be there," he told her.

They were quiet for a moment. Slowly, he reached out to where she sat and touched her back at the bottom of her neck, in a gesture of solidarity and comfort; after a moment his hand ghosting slowly down her spine to rest in the small of her back. All the time he watched her face. For a moment she looked slightly startled, taken aback, but then she relaxed against him, her back moving more closely into his hand, bowing her head a fraction. As she moved the weak midday sun caught the outline of face, highlighting it, making her features bold and brilliant. Even in her grief she could be so beautiful.

They were snapped out of the momentary reverie they both seemed to have sunk into by the arrival of on of the young nurses; Richard sharply withdrawing his hand from Isobel's back.

"Dr. Clarkson," the girl said, "There's a woman here, she wants you to see her. She's expecting a child and she seems to be in some discomfort."

"We're a military hospital now," he reminded the girl, "We're not really supposed to take cases like this. But, I suppose, at lunchtime I might be able to see her in the examination room," he checked his watch hastily, "I can't offer her one of the beds, though, my guts would be had for garters if anyone found out."

"Let me go," Isobel spoke from beside him, putting her hand on his wrist and stopping him as he made to get up, "You finish eat your lunch. Officially, I'm not even supposed to be here so logically we can spare as much of my time as we like. It makes sense."

Isobel exchanged a glance with the nurse. The girl nodded.

"I think she'd be just as happy to let Mrs Crawley see her," the girl replied.

"Very well," Richard conceded.

Isobel got up and followed the nurse away, fleetingly glancing back towards him as she stepped in through the door of the hospital.

…**...**

He didn't see Isobel for quite a way into the afternoon. By half past four he was properly worried, whatever was the matter she should have been finished for a long time by now.

"Nurse Sanders," he called, catching up with her as she made to leave the ward, addressing the nurse who had come to fetch Isobel earlier, "What happened with the woman who came in earlier? The one Nurse Crawley saw?"

The girl looked towards the floor, bowing her head for a moment. Something about the look on her face struck a cold chord with Richard, and threatened to make his stomach plummet.

"What?" he murmured, needing a response urgently now, "Tell me, please, at once. What happened?"

He saw tears beginning to form in the girl's eyes.

"The pains she was having were contractions," she told him, "She was only five months gone. We couldn't stop the contractions and by the time we realised that the baby was coming there wasn't time to send for you. Nurse Crawley had to deliver the baby herself. He was tiny, it was a little boy."

"Was?"

"He didn't make it."

"How long ago was this?" he asked urgently.

"An hour."

"And where is Nurse Crawley?"

"She wanted to be left alone. I think she went to your office."

Before the words left her mouth he was already gone.

…**...**

Tapping once on the door, he slipped inside without waiting for an answer and locked the door behind him. Isobel sat on the small two-seat settee squashed into the corner of the office, her figure slouched against the fabric, staring at the floor. She looked up with the click of the door, meeting his eyes, and looking utterly dismayed. Tears were sliding down her face.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Richard," she whispered.

"No, I'm sorry," he told her sitting down beside her and drawing her tightly into his arms, wrapping himself completely around her, pulling her half way into his lap, "I'm so sorry I didn't go instead. I should have done; you should never have had to handle a case like that."

"I tried my best," she protested through her tears.

"I know," he told her, rubbing her back soothingly, kissing her forehead, "You did everything you could."

Her hand had found its way over his back and was pressing into the back of his shoulder, her face was buried in the front of the same shoulder.

"I couldn't save that little boy," she cried, "I wasn't there to protect my own son, and now because of me a poor girl has lost hers too."

"That's not true, Isobel. It would have been a miracle if that baby had survived. You are not to blame."

But nothing he could say would soothe her, she was beyond consolation. She just sat there, her body slouched against his, her face buried in his shoulder, him supporting her entirely, weeping copiously. Her sobs racked through him too, he closed his eyes against the sound and feeling of them, they broke his heart. Turning his head, he pressed his face into her hair, breathing in the smell of her. They stayed like that for a long time.

"I'm taking you home," he told her when they finally broke apart, both sitting up a little, taking hold of her hands, "You're staying with me tonight."

She sniffed her consent.

"And you won't be coming in tomorrow, I will send you away if you try to."

He waited for a half-hearted protest, but none arrived. Only when he let go of her hands to stand up did he realise that his thumb had been brushing back and forth over the back of her hand, caressing her knuckle.

"Come on," he told her, "We're going home now. I don't think either of us are much use to anyone now."

Except maybe each other, he thought, helping her into her coat. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, hers folding around his middle, neither of them caring who saw them.

**Don't hate me. Please review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

She stayed. By the Saturday night she was sleeping a little bit more soundly, with the help of a tonic to relax the nerves that Richard had brought home from the hospital. It was what they gave to the soldiers who were badly shell-shocked. She was still sleeping beside him, in his bed, more often than not with her ear pressed up against his heart.

He, on the other hand, was progressing in the opposite direction; with every night he lay down beside her, stroking her arm slowly against her pale linen nightdress as she fell asleep, his mind seemed more and more chaotic and less able to relax. Their situation, he had to admit, was utterly bizarre.

She had told him, confided in him quite matter-of-factly as if it were the most supremely normal arrangement, that she had told Molesley that she would be staying up at the big house for the foreseeable future. She had sent a note to the big house expressing her thanks for their concern but asking if they would leave her be at the present time, she wanted to be alone at Crawley House. So now they were living together. He phrased it that way for the first time to himself. In the space of a week they had gone from a strained, tense acquaintance of breathing down each others necks, to an all-absorbing co-dependence, sleeping in each other's arms. Living together.

It wasn't that he hadn't imagined what it would be like to have Isobel Crawley in his bed before. He had, he was rather ashamed to admit now, though it had always been under entirely different circumstances and engaging in entirely different activities. Not always the bed either, he reminded himself ruefully, ashamed of his irreverence. He had always found her astoundingly attractive. But somehow, their relationship had never exploded like he had imagined it would do- him pinning her to his desk, or the door frame, or the examination table. Something had always stopped him: either the feeling of being slightly intimidated with his awe for her, or genuine affection that he felt for her warmth and kindness and heart. No, it had exploded in a different way; in a way that was so much more intimate than the other. Now he held no illusion of being intimidated by her, but his affection for her had increased exponentially. Her trust in him humbled him enormously, he could not entertain the notion of even risking taking advantage of her like this, though it had been her to make advances to him. But still she was so beautiful.

She stirred in her sleep, interrupting his thoughts. He expected that she would fall back asleep but a second later her eyes opened, blinking at him sleepily.

"Are you alright?" he whispered "You haven't had another nightmare?"

"No," she replied, yawning a little, "What time is it?"

He glanced at his pocket watch.

"Quarter past two."

"There's time for some more sleep," she murmured, "Must get up in the morning. Things to arrange."

She meant the funeral, but she had taken to calling it "things".

"Goodnight, Richard."

"Goodnight, Isobel."

He kissed her, aiming for her forehead as usual, but she moved her head backwards a little at the same time. He kissed the gap between the corner of her nose and her upper lip. Her eyes opened again, her breath gasping a little. In the dark he could see her eyes shining as they stared at each other. She placed a peck squarely in the centre of his lips. Their lips seemed to stay together, reluctant to part. After a few moments, he felt her lips slip open against his, waiting for him. He sighed. What had he just decided? He couldn't. He traced his thumb over the curve of her cheek and broke away.

"Goodnight, Isobel," he whispered, pulling the covers over them and settling back down to more sleeplessness.

…**...**

The funeral was on the Tuesday, exactly a week after she had received the news. As an officer and a relation to the Earl of Grantham, special arrangements had been made to have Matthew's body returned to Downton. In keeping with her supposed isolation at Crawley House, Isobel elected not to travel to the church with the rest of the family.

"It's so unfair in a way," Isobel confided in him as they walked to the church together, both in their mourning clothes, "I am one of the very few mothers of this rotten war who have the comfort of knowing where their sons are buried."

"You didn't ask for it," Richard reminded her, "It was Lord Grantham who made all of the arrangements on that score."

"No, but I'm taking advantage of it," she replied.

His gloved hand closed for a moment around hers.

"Anyone in their right mind would," he told her firmly, "And I'm glad you know where he is. If I had my way, this would be done for every soldier. Both you and Matthew deserve no less."

She had not let go of his hand. It was alright, Richard's house was near the outskirts of the village and they had not reached the main road that led to the church yet.

"It's funny," she mused aloud to him, "When Reginald died things were oddly simple. I'd lost him, and for a while it flawed me entirely. But after a few months, I started to live for Matthew, only for Matthew. Every thing I did was for him. What do you do," she asked tears flooding to her eyes, "When the person you live for dies, Richard?"

He truly did know what the answer was to that.

"I'm sorry," she told him wiping her eyes, "When I'm with you I seem to do nothing but cry at the moment."

"It's alright," he told her, squeezing her hand, "Of course it's alright. And it's probably better to get out now with me than at the funeral when everyone else is there."

"Yes," she sniffed her agreement into her handkerchief.

She was quiet for a few more paces.

"Are you alright?" he asked her tentatively.

"Yes," she replied, "I'm fine."

"And I suppose," he ventured, "When the person you live for dies, nothing changes; you go on living for them. You go on living in their memory. You don't stop loving them, and that way you keep them alive. And you allow," he continued, his heart inexplicably hammering against his ribs, "You allow other people to love you, if you ever lose sight for a moment of how much the person you lived for loved you back."

She stopped in the middle of the street, staring at him.

"I'm sorry," he bowed his head, looking at his shoes "I shouldn't hav-..."

He was surprised by the feeling of her lips against his cheek, her gloved cupping the other side of his face.

"Thank you, Richard," she told him, biting her lip to stop tears flowing again, "Thank you so much."

He squeezed her hand again, before having to let go as they reached the main road.

…**...**

They were a little late for church. Well, not late really, but the rest of the family and half of the village had arrived before them. Isobel, with composure to be truly marvelled at, marched with her head held high to the front of the church, where the rest of the family were sitting in the Crawley family pews at the front.

Richard followed a little sheepishly, and after escorting her to her seat was about to head to the back of the church to sit with the other villagers. Isobel did not let go of his arm, nodding pointedly at the empty pew left beside hers. He looked at her, and could tell by her face that her mind was thoroughly made up; she would not be moved on this matter. He sat down beside her, all the while able to feel Lady Violet's hostile stare on the back of his head. Perhaps the old lady had been warned by Lord Grantham not to make any barbed comments in her cousin's direction today, or, he had a feeling, they'd have both been for it.

Isobel, evidently, could feel it too. Sitting forward gracefully, she past Lord and Lady Grantham to say to the Dowager Countess in a quiet but clear voice:

"I want him with me."

…**...**

"You know," she began, her arm on his as they walked across the peak of the hill and began their descent, "I've been thinking. There's no reason for Cousin Robert to let me keep Crawley House now."

It was Sunday afternoon, nearly a week after the funeral. She had not been at the hospital all week, and, having felt the lack of each other through the week, they had driven out to the middle of the countryside to go for a walk. Her arm was linked through his; there were only cows to see them.

"It's your home," he told her, "He has to let you keep it."

"I'm not sure I want him to," she responded after a moment's thought, "Every room, everywhere I go, is Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. The little table he put his feet on when he thought I wasn't looking. The window sill that he kept leaving the newspapers on. But in spite of that, it's so empty. I'll never be able to move on if I live there."

He was about to open his mouth, when she continued.

"Do you know the last time I missed him like that?" she asked.

"No," he replied, thinking his question could wait, "But I'd like you to tell me."

"It wasn't even when he went away to school. It was when he stopped being a tiny little baby; when he started to want to kick about and run around. It was heart-breaking in a way, because when he was tiny I used to wrap him up in his blankets and hold him against my chest. I could hold him with one arm," she told him, showing him how, "Just here, and his little legs would tuck against my stomach. And his little hand would curl tightly around my thumb. I would hold him, and we would be the only two people in the world. I wanted to stay like that forever."

"Oh, Isobel," he whispered.

She smiled at him sadly.

"It's utterly absurd that I missed him then," she told him, "I still had him."

He squeezed her hand gently.

"You don't want to live alone, do you?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "I don't."

"Isobel," he began slowly, "I've been thinking of something."

"What?" she asked.

"Can I tell you the whole story?"

"Yes, of course."

"I know where you've been this week, while I was at the hospital," he confessed.

For a moment she looked very surprised, but her expression remained calm.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Because Alice's husband came to see me," he answered, "And thanked me for the way you've been looking after his wife since, well, since her disappointment with the baby."

"I'd only been to see her a couple of times," she protested, "To make sure she was recovering. I did feel so terribly responsible."

"I know you did," he replied, "But you do know that neither Alice nor John blames you for what happened? He told me. They're both very grateful to you."

"Yes. She told me too. We talked a lot. She's a very nice girl. It's such a shame that something like that happened to her."

"It is," he agreed, "Her husband seems very nice too, a very responsible young man. I told him to take care of his wife, and-..."

"And what, Richard?"

"He told me to take good care of mine," he watched the look on her face, before hesitantly adding,"I think he meant you."

She was silent for a moment.

"Yes," she agreed, finally, "I think he probably did too."

His stomach was sinking slowly with every second that she remained silent, but then- she stood slightly in front of him- she turned her head and smiled over her shoulder at him, her hand tightening in his. They had stopped, facing down at the rest of the field that led to the lane where they had parked the car. The breeze blew through the long grass and brushed against both their faces.

"Isobel," he asked, "I've been thinking and it all makes sense; what you've said and want I want. I think we should get married. Will you marry me?"

**Please review if you have the time.**


	6. Chapter 6

He heard her exhale deeply. His stomach clenched a little, but then the corners of her mouth twitched into a tiny smile.

"Richard, please don't think that I wouldn't have said yes in a heartbeat if things were anything like simple between us," she told him earnestly, "More than that, I would have asked you to get us a special licence and demanded that we be married tomorrow. But the fact is," she told him, rather gravely, "They're not, are they? Simple? I'm not rejecting you," she added hastily, seeing the look on his face, "I promise you, I'm not saying no. But we really do need to talk, thoroughly, about us, before I can say yes."

"Of course," he agreed, "Of course we must."

They were quiet for a moment.

"I don't think we can talk here," she said, "Not properly."

"No," he agreed, and then, "Would you like to go home?" he asked, "And," he suggested it tentatively, "You can think about it on the drive back?"

"Yes, I'd like that," she replied, smiling at him.

Cautiously, he stretched out his hand for hers so they could walk down the hill together. Smiling the broadest smile he'd seen on her face in two weeks, she took his hand, linking their fingers together, and they set off.

…**...**

"I'll put the kettle on," he announced as they made it through the front door.

"Good idea," she replied, "Shall we sit in the kitchen?"

He took it that she meant for their chat.

"Yes," he agreed, thinking that it would be best to be able to see her face at all times; to rule out the chance of a misunderstanding. Also, he rather liked looking at her face. But, he reminded himself, he shouldn't allow himself to get distracted, they needed to concentrate on talking.

"I'll do the tea," she told him as they entered the kitchen, "You sit down."

Although not quite sure whether or not he was imagining it, willing it to be true, the inflections of her voice sounded just a little bit happier since they'd come back home, since they'd been on the hillside. He hoped so. He liked this, he liked sharing this domesticity with her. And he hoped, desperately, that it wasn't going to end because he had posed his question in too much haste. She had become a necessary part of the day; he couldn't bear to lose her.

She joined him at the table with two steaming mugs. They sat there quietly for a moment or two, drinking their tea, occasionally stealing a furtive glimpse at each other.

"Richard," she broke the silence quite abruptly, her face just a little curious, "Why did you ask me to marry you? I'm not being cynical or critical," she added quickly, "Or trying to prove that your reasons were foolish. Not at all. I just think it's best if I know why you asked me from the start."

"Because I don't want you to be lonely," he told her, "I want to take care of you."

"But you've managed that all this week and most of last," she pointed out, "Without us being married."

"You being here stops me being lonely too," he confessed, not liking to admit how empty his own life had been before her. He hadn't even realised until it changed, "I don't want you to have to feel you have to stop living here after a time."

"I wouldn't feel like I had to leave until you told me I did," she replied, "You wouldn't allow me to stay under false pretences. I'm sorry, I'm not trying to dismantle everything you say. I only want to get to the bottom of why you asked."

"Do you really want it?" he asked, slightly frustrated, willing her to understand him, "The bottom line? What it all comes down to?"

She blinked.

"Yes."

"I love you."

She blinked again.

"I don't want you to think," he added, hastily, thinking she could get the wrong idea from that confession, "That I want you to marry me so that-..." he struggled to say it.

"So that what, Richard?" she asked, reached across the table to where his hands gripped his mug- a little firmly, from the tension that seemed to have risen between them- and covered them with her own, slowly stroking over the back of his thumbs.

"So that I can demand my rights as a husband from you. I don't want you to think that at all because it wouldn't be like that."

He heard her sigh.

"What?" he asked her, puzzled.

"That's just it, Richard. If we marry- and please don't doubt that I hope we will- I don't want it to be just a cold contract. If you only want to give me companionship then we should stay as we are and know where we stand with each other. Living as we are there's no reason that anyone should disapprove. But marriage to me is... everything, Richard. I don't want you to take advantage of me any more than you do. But I do want you to want me, in every way." Her eyes were fixed on their hands, cupped together around the mug of tea, "Think of it this way. I love the way you hold me through the night, and if that's all we ever have I can live with that, provided that we stay as we are. But if we get married, I want you to hold me through the night after we've... after we've made love." In a flush of boldness, she looked up, full into his eyes. "I know a marriage shouldn't be all about that side of things, and I know ours wouldn't be. But I'm tempted to say that without that side of things, it's not really a marriage at all. Well, that's what I think, anyway."

"Can I rephrase the bottom line?" he asked her, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Go on."

"I'm in love with you. Everything, everything, I've done for you...don't you see? It has all been one blank cheque of love for you. I think you're beautiful, inside and out. There's nothing I wouldn't do to try to make you happy. I'm in love with you," he repeated, savouring the words as they left his lips, finally able to say them, "I want you to fall in love with me too."

"I already have done, Richard," she replied, "I knew I was the moment I let you read that telegram. I never would have done, if I wasn't..."

Slowly, he moved her hands away from the cup they were both still clasping, held them solely in his and kissed the inside of both of them, his lips pressing deeply into her palms. Her hands still held against his lips, he looked up, looking into her eyes.

"Tell me you will," he murmured, "Take all the time you need to grieve, we have all the time in the world to wait, but tell me you will in the end."

She smiled at him.

"I will," she replied, "I don't want to wait forever, though. Two or three months, maybe."

He was still smiling at her.

"We're going to be so happy together," he told her.

"We will," she agreed, "Just... be here for me in the meantime, while I grieve?"

"Nothing could stop me."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	7. Chapter 7

**I know the story might have seemed to reach a natural conclusion last chapter but I still had ideas left in the old head and it seemed a shame not to use them. **

"You do still want to live together, don't you?" he asked, that evening, a little abruptly as an unsavoury thought suddenly occurred to him, sitting at the kitchen table as she brought their supper over and sat down opposite him for the second time that day.

"What on earth made you ask a question like that?" she wanted to know, "I've just agreed to marry you. So surely the idea that I wouldn't want to is completely contradictory?"

"Yes, I know," he agreed, "But I mean in the immediate future, before we marry, while we're engaged as it were."

"I like that," she told him, looking up at him and smiling softly, "It sounds nice."

Distracted by the happiness it gave her, he forgot his question for the moment and smiled too.

"Yes it does," he agreed, "I've never been engaged before."

"Really?" she asked, a little surprised, "Am I the first woman that you've asked to marry you?"

"The first one who's said yes," he joked, "More fool you. No," he corrected himself seriously, "That's to say, yes, you are. You're the only woman I've ever loved enough to ask."

The look on her face suggested that she did not know quite how to react to that confession, so she tried to play it down.

"That and the fact that you're less of a cad now than you used to be," she smirked a little at him.

"Of course," he replied, grinning, "That goes without saying. So will you stay here? Despite our being engaged?"

"Of course I will," she told him, "Somehow, I don't think we're quite like ordinary engaged couples. We're a good forty years older for a start."

He winced.

"Thirty-five, maybe."

"Alright, thirty-five," she agreed, "Anyway, apart from that, I very much want to. Stay here with you. I can't imagine it any other way. Who will hold me when I wake up in the night if I'm not here with you?"

"Well," he replied haltingly, "No one else. I should hope."

She laughed a little.

"How hasn't Molesley worked out that you're not where you've said you are?" he wanted to know, "Surely he's due to realise that you're not up at the big house any day now."

"Because I've told him to go and stay with his father for the foreseeable future," she replied.

" You devious woman," he told her, grinning.

"I prefer the word "clever"," she replied, "Speaking of the big house," she continued, more seriously, "I've been thinking that I should go and see Cousin Mary."

He was quiet, waiting for her to on.

"Thinking about it," she ventured slowly, "I've come off rather well out of... well, what's happened. Well, haven't I?" she questioned when his expression appeared dubious.

"I wouldn't say you had particularly," he remarked, "You've lost your son."

"And I've got you," she replied, "Or gained you,rather. I'm not suggesting for a moment that you're marrying me out of pity, but really, Richard, would you have ever got round to asking without my being here like this?"

"Probably not," he replied.

"Well," she continued, "Given that I consider the prospect of us getting married one of the highlights of my life, I would say that I've come off much better than I might have done. And much better than some have done for that matter. Mary being the first person that springs to mind."

"Why?" he asked, "I thought she was going to marry that Sir Richard fellow?"

"She probably will now," Isobel conceded, "I never quite managed to shake off the hope that they would sort things out between the two of them," she confessed, "In spite of Lavinia. And I bet I wasn't the only one. Again, Cousin Mary is the first person who springs to mind."

"How is Lavinia?" he asked.

"Terribly upset, of course," she replied, "That's another thing. I can't help feeling that I've been rather selfish with regard to her, hiding out here. I've hardly seen her."

"She had plenty of other people around her," he told her soothingly, "Don't feel guilty. You did what you needed to do; no one can blame you for that."

She nodded haltingly.

"Nevertheless," she continued, sniffing a little, "Mary won't have had everyone to comfort her, because, like you say, she's supposed to be happily engaged to Richard Carlisle."

"And you don't think she is?"

"I think- I thought- that she was still in love with Matthew. Or perhaps I was only imagining it. Is that silly of me?"

"I don't know," he replied, "Probably not. If she was she'll be in a dreadful way by now. I can't think what it would do to me to lose you."

"You won't lose me, Richard," she promised him, "You've got me for good."

Forgetting their food they reached across the table, clasping each other's hands.

"I had been meaning to ask you," he continued a moment later, when they had finally been able to break their eyes away from each other's, "Do you feel up to coming back to the hospital this week? Don't say yes if you don't because it's alright, I was just wondering if you did."

"Are you short-staffed?" she asked.

"Not particularly," he admitted, "I just like having you there. It's useful; you know what you're doing, and, more importantly, you know what I'm doing better than I do. I feel a little bit lost when you're not there."

"In that case I'd like to come back," she replied.

"Good."

…**...**

"Richard," she began on Thursday night as they settled down on the settee after finishing the washing up together. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her to him, "There's a conversation we haven't had yet. A slightly important one"

"Which one, my darling?" he asked, a little cheerfully, making her smile slightly.

"The one about the side of things that isn't going to be what our marriage is solely based on, but is nevertheless important to making it a proper marriage."

"Ah. That one."

"Stop fooling about," she told him, nudging him playfully in the ribs, "Be serious for a few minutes, please."

"Sorry," he told her, "What exactly about that side of things do you want us to talk about?"

"Well," she began, "For a start we're going to have to stop calling it "that side of things". We are grown up enough to at least name it."

"Alright, then. What exactly, with regard to our lovemaking, do you wish to discuss?"

"Well, the first thing that springs to mind is when we're going to start. When _are_ we going to start?"

He looked at her very seriously all of a sudden.

"You're grieving," he reminded her levelly.

"I know I am. And I need something to take me away from that. To convince me that I haven't died too."

"You are happy here with me, aren't you?" he asked her, a little hurt.

"Of course I am, Richard," she assured him, "Don't you ever think anything else. But it's not quite the same, is it? This grief, I'm not sure exactly what it does to other people, and heaven knows it was exactly the opposite the last time it happened to me, but I want desperately to be as close as possible to someone. To you, specifically."

He thought about it for a moment.

"If it's only the grief," he began slowly, "Mightn't you regret it afterwards?"

"I'd never regret you, Richard," she told him vehemently.

"You can't be sure," he replied.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "I hadn't wanted to force you into anything."

"Force me? Great God, woman, do you think this is easy for me? I've wanted to make love to you for goodness knows how long, and you're making it no light task for me to resist at the moment!"

"That's because I had no intention of making it a light task," she told him flatly. There was a pause for a moment.

"Look," she continued, "I want to and you want to, so-..."

"I want us to wait until we're married," he told her firmly.

"Do you?" she asked.

"The rational part of my head does."

She smiled.

"Alright, Richard. Out of respect to the rational part of your head I'll drop the subject for the moment."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**I apologise for the delay.**

He was sitting on the settee in front of the fire, when there was an alarming crash and a yelp from the direction of the kitchen. Usually he would have been helping Isobel to prepare the food but today was his birthday, as well as it having been eight weeks to the day of them living together, so she had insisted that she would cook the dinner for them tonight.

"Isobel," he called getting up and hurrying out of the sitting room and across the hall, "What's the matter?"

She was over by the sink, running her hand under the tap.

"Blasted tea towel," she told him, nodding to the offending item next to a spilled pot of stew, "The dish was so hot that it singed straight through the flimsy thing and got my thumb."

"Why weren't you using the oven gloves?" he asked.

"I couldn't find them."

"Idiot woman," he chided, moving over to where she was, "Let me have a look at it."

"I wouldn't have to be a nurse to tell you that I've been burned," she huffed, "I flaming well felt it!"

She let him have a look anyway. Despite putting it under the cold water, the pad of her thumb was red raw.

"You sound like Mrs Patmore," he teased her.

"Please don't push me, Richard," she told him, her eyes shut and her head held back a little, "What is your medical prognosis? Is my thumb sufficiently burned to meet with your approval? Or am I just a trivial case?"

"Just about enough," he replied, "I'd prescribed a kiss better," which he swiftly supplied, "Then stick it back under the tap for a bit."

She did so silently.

"I'm sorry," she told him quietly after a little while, "I've ruined your birthday dinner."

"No you haven't," he replied, "You've just taken a very alternative route to cooking it."

She smiled at his attempt to cheer him up.

"I've ruined it," she assured him, "I doubt if it'll cook now. Anyway, you'd have to scrape it off the bench and the oven."

"True," he conceded, "It doesn't matter, though."

"It does, Richard, it's your birthday!"

"It doesn't. We can just make some toast or something and have it by the fire."

"But you said earlier that you were hungry," she protested, turning off the tap and drying her hand gingerly on the towel.

"Then we'll make lots of toast."

She smiled again briefly before saying:

"I feel dreadful now. I wanted tonight to be special for you."

"It will be," he told her firmly, "So long as I spend it with you."

She watched him for a second.

"What?" he asked.

"Richard," she told him, with a conviction that surprised him, "Kiss me, please. You've just made me very happy by saying that," she explained a little meekly, her lips curling into a shy smile, "I'd like to preserve this moment a little longer."

"Alright," he told her, unable to stop himself grinning as he closed the space between them, pressing her softly back against the kitchen bench as their lips met and their bodies pressed tenderly against one another.

He felt her hands resting comfortably on the back of his neck, the right one a little bit more softly than the left one to protect the burned patch on her thumb.

"Richard, don't be cross," she began as they broke apart, their faces resting against each other, their bodies held snugly together by their embracing arms.

"What?" he asked softly, "What have you done now?"

"Nothing," she admitted grumpily, "That's the trouble. It was what I was planning to do."

He leant back, surveying her suspiciously.

"What are you up to, Isobel Crawley?" he pretended to demand.

"You see, I did so want tonight to be special," she told him, "Because I was planning to seduce you."

"You-..."

"I know we said we would wait but-..." she struggled to quite articulate herself in the face of his surprise.

"We're getting married in six weeks," he reminded her gently.

"I know," she replied, "It just seemed like a very long time to wait. And it's your birthday."

There was a pause for a few moments.

"You're not angry with me, are you?" she asked him shyly.

He couldn't have been if he tried, he thought, looking at how adorable she was, in his arms, fearing that he would overreact.

"Not angry, no," he told her, "I don't think any chap would be. More flattered, really. Not to mention impressed at your persistence."

He kissed her on the cheek, and then on the nose, and then the lips again.

"How long have you been planning this for?" he asked her.

"A while," was all she would give away.

He laughed again, hugging her to him.

"Oh, Isobel. I love you."

"I love you too."

He traced his thumbs over up and down the sides of her arms.

"I love you like I've never loved anyone before; as my friend, as my companion, and as my wife."

Her head raised from his chest, and they looked at each other, his words resonating in her ears.

"Richard," she warned him, her voice shaking a little as she spoke, "You're going to have to be very clear about what you mean by that."

"Why?" he asked, teasing her, knowing full well why.

"Because if you mean what I think you meant, then I might just kiss you," she told him, "And not stop this time."

"We'll be officially married in six weeks time," he told her, perfectly clearly, letting her know where she stood, "But I feel as if we're man and wife already. Perhaps we have been for a while now."

She stared up at him, hardly daring to blink.

"Kiss me, Richard," she told him plainly, then, her voice quivering again, "Make love to me, please."

His lips came crashing down onto hers, their bodies pressed flush against each other as he braced her back against the kitchen bench. His hands slipped from where they hand been resting prudently on her arms and held her waist, before slipping down to cup her bottom through her skirt. Moving his mouth away from hers, he traced the line of her jaw with his lips and tongue, latched onto her ear lobe and sucked. He heard her moan close to his own ear.

"Isobel, not here my love," he told her, breaking away while he was still able, "You deserve much better than a quick fumble in a kitchen. For our first time at least."

Their breathing was considerably laboured as their hands slipped together, their fingers entwining tightly.

"Come on," he murmured, kissing her lips briefly again, "Let's go to bed. Our bed."

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes shining, following him out of the kitchen.

…**...**

They fell together back onto the bed, their bodies exhausted and spent, clinging on to each other as to a lifeline, their breathing heavy and in time with one another. He fumbled with the bed covers, drawing them over them both to help preserve the heat of the passionate embrace through the night. Settling back down beside her, he stared at her beautiful face, her muscles relaxed after the release her climax as her breathing levelled gently but continued to govern her movements. Her eyes were closed. Settling his hand on her face to cup her jaw, his thumb smoothed over the loose, wild hair at her temple. Her eyes fluttered open with the gentle pressure.

"Richard," she murmured, "Richard, that was, oh God, that was-..."

His wrist lying against her neck, he felt the ghost of a lump move in her throat as she tried to articulate herself. He smiled softly at her. She turned her face a fraction and tenderly kissed his palm.

"I know," he agreed, kissing her to soothe her a little, "You're unbelievably beautiful, Isobel. Incredible."

"Thank you, Richard," she whispered, "Thank you for giving me my life back."

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	9. Chapter 9

It undeniably made them closer. They were a lot less formal around each other. Before, even while they had been living together, they had been relatively restrained, guarded even, when it came to contact. They sat, their arms draped around each other, in the evenings and held each other at night; but those times had basically been the greatest extent of their physical contact. More often than not they had maintained a courteous distance from one another.

But now it was so different. They couldn't stop touching each other, seeking out contact as a necessity. When they were both in the kitchen, he would stand behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder, kissing her neck, his arms wrapped around her waist. They would hold hands as they sat together at the table, and more than once she dared to tease the edge of her stockinged feet up the back of his calf. Even when they worked together at the hospital, he allowed his hand to rest for a fraction of a second in the small of her back; every time he did so, they would exchange the most fleeting of silent smiles, both thinking of exactly the same thing, and then move off.

And, it emerged that their lovemaking hadn't just been a one-off, symbolic gesture. It was never going to be anything like that. They craved the exquisite closeness of it, they craved each other, the explosive, beautiful passion they seemed to awaken each other- both of them privately surprised, an openly delighted by it. For both of them, it was wonderful to have a lover again; more wonderful, even, than it had ever been before.

They would hold hands now on the street, not caring who saw them. By now, Isobel was in half-mourning and most of the village knew that she and the doctor were going to be married. It was only Lady Violet who could bring herself to watch them pass together- walking side by side with their fingers locked together- and still look disapproving.

…**...**

One afternoon, three weeks before their wedding, he left the hospital early to attend to some business so she walked home alone. When she got in, she was hanging her coat up on the peg beside his when she spotted a small bouquet of sunflowers tied with white ribbon lying on the table. She smiled, crossing to pick them up. As she did so, Richard appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen.

"Are these from you?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied.

"Thank you, they're lovely," she told him sincerely, crossing to kiss him on the cheek and then once on the lips, "But why?"

"Do I need a reason?" he asked her.

"I know you, you're a practical man. You will have a reason," she told him decidedly, "Don't worry," she added, seeing the slight hint of doubt in his expression, "That's not a criticism."

"You're right, of course," he answered, "I did have a particular reason."

"What was it?" she asked, leaning against him, snuggling into his chest, fingering the edge of the flowers affectionately.

"I never asked you to marry me properly," he replied conversationally.

"You didn't need to, I'd already said yes before you could get the words out," she reminded him.

"You never got a ring either."

"Oh, Richard," she told him, seeing exactly where this was going, "You didn't need to get me an engagement ring! I don't require it of you, I'm marrying you for you, not for new jewellery. Just the wedding ring will do me just fine."

"I didn't say I'd bought you one," he told her, bringing a little velvet box out of his pocket.

"Well, what's that, then?" she demanded, nodding towards it.

"It's not the right shape for a ring," he pointed out, lifting the box and putting it into her hands.

He was right, it was not. It was larger, more rectangular and flatter than ring boxes were.

"Open it," he whispered, "You deserve to have something, Isobel," he told her, "I won't hear another word of argument."

With trembling hands, she put her sunflowers back down on the table and opened the box with both hands.

"Oh, Richard."

In the box was a locket, gold, a perfectly smooth oval, with tiny flowers engraved in the surface.

"That's not a diamond, is it?" she asked, nodding to the tiny stone glinting in the centre of the biggest flower.

"Only a very small one," he pointed out, "It should have a diamond; it's for your engagement".

"Richard, this must have cost you a fortune," she told him.

"But do you like it?" he wanted to know.

"It's perfect," she told him, "But-..."

"Then how much it cost doesn't matter in the slightest," he assured her, "Look inside."

Gently, she prized open the locket, gasping, her eyes welling with tears when she saw what was there.

"Did I do right to have it put there?" he asked her tentatively.

Set in the locket was a cutting from a photograph, a group picture taken at the convalescent home when the General had visited. Fortunately, it just so happened that Matthew, Isobel and Richard had all been standing next to each other when it was taken, and Richard had cut the three of them out of the main picture to put in the locket.

"Oh, Richard, I love you. Thank you. This is-..." she couldn't think, or finish, "Perfect," she supplied weakly, unable to think of another word, "Absolutely perfect."

Embracing each other, they both smiled uncontrollably, although Isobel was still crying.

"Can I help you put it on?" he asked her as they broke apart.

"Of course," she replied, holding out the box for him to take it.

Gently, he drew the chain around her neck, settling the necklace perfectly in place so the locket rested just below the hollow of her throat. She turned back towards him, slipping both of her hands into his, and they just stood there together for a few seconds.

"So is that a yes, then?"

"A yes, to what?"

"Oh heavens, I _still _haven't actually asked you! Isobel Crawley," he fell to his knees before her, "Will you do me the honour of being my wife?"

Softly, she boxed him around the ears.

"Get up, you ridiculous man! We've already got the licence and the church is booked!"

Laughing, he got up, drawing her into his arms and lifting her off the floor for a moment. She yelped, grasping onto his shoulders until he set her firmly down upon the ground. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him, hard.

"Do you think we could-...?" she jerked her head in the direction of the stairs.

"Have an "early night", you mean?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," she nodded her ascent, watching the line of his throat very closely, almost licking her lips as she did so, her arms still draped around his neck.

"I don't see why not," he replied, slipping his hands into hers, and leading her upstairs.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Slight M-ness and happiness to finish off with. **

They lay together in bed, the sheet only reaching their waists, draping exactly along the line of Isobel's hips, so that the fire-warmed air rested lightly against the upper parts of their naked bodies. Although they lay slightly apart, their limbs converged, their legs loosely entwined and their hands drifted tiredly over each other's forms, softly, almost absent-mindedly, caressing each other in the aftermath of their passion. Her head bowed, she watched, wearily transfixed, as his finger- his brand new wedding ring glinting gold in the firelight- brushed over her nipple, the cool of the metal as in made contact making her moan. When her eyes flitted upwards they met his instantly.

"Do you want me again?" he asked, in a level and low voice, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

She felt herself shiver and flush at the same time.

"Yes," she whispered in reply, unable to suppress the palpably honest answer that slipped from her lips without so much as a second thought, "But you must need time before we can-..."

"Lie on your back," he told her firmly and assuredly, leaving no room for her to argue or to doubt him in any way, his hand ghosting down her side to her hip, waiting for the look in her eye that he knew meant that he had her permission before gently rolling her over and lying between her legs, moving down the bed so his head rested against her thighs, buried in her lap.

"Richard-..." she almost protested, but was soundly caught unable to speak by the feeling of his lips on her. Gasping, she could do nothing else but wind her hand into her husband's hair, pressing him closer to her as he pleasured her with his tongue. Her last coherent thought was how glad she was that they hadn't waited until tonight before making love, because what they had done meant that by now he knew exactly what she would want, where to touch her.

As the last surge of her climax rattled through her hip she felt him gently rubbing her sides, his head level with hers again, holding her close against him as she rode out the blinding pleasure he had given her. He was kissing her face softly and tenderly. Her breathing finally levelled and she bowed her head again, resting her forehead against his shoulder, feeling his kisses moving into her hair before he stopped and just rested his head against hers.

As she regained some energy, she moved her arms to hold his body, raising her head to look at him.

"I love being married," he told her.

She laughed a little.

"I'm surprised you didn't try it earlier," she remarked, "As seen as it seems to suit you so well."

"There's a reason for that," he informed her.

"Oh yes?"

"I should have said that I love being married, to _you_. No one else. I can't imagine it with anyone else, ever."

Even after all of these months when she'd known full well how he felt about her, hearing him say things like that still flawed her. He was watching her, his thumb caressing her back and forth under her shoulder blades, tenderness in his touch and in his eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he told her, "You've been beautiful in so many ways today, especially just now."

She blushed again, her hand moving to cup his cheek, tracing the lines of his face.

"And earlier," he continued, "At the church, I was so proud of you. So proud that everyone could see I was marrying you. You were breath-taking. And a little bit sad," he remarked pointedly, his eyes meeting hers again "As you walked down the aisle. Do you want to tell me why?" he asked, never considering for a second that he might be wrong, he had seen that look on Isobel's face before, that soft sadness behind her smile, "Or should I leave it? I take it, it had nothing to do with marrying _me_?" he asked, half-joking.

"Of course it wasn't," she replied, kissing his forehead and his lips, "Of course it wasn't, Richard, how could it have been? Thank you, thank you for noticing."

She smiled at him gratefully.

"So what was it?" he pressed.

"I was just thinking," she told him, "Just for a moment, while I was still a little way away from you, how perfect everything would have been if my son had been able to give me away, instead of Cousin Robert. I couldn't help really missing him then."

"Oh, Isobel."

He drew her to him, this time, holding her closely and kissing her.

"I know he would have approved of you," she explained to him after they had been silent for a little while, her head still resting against his chest, "Of us. He always liked you, you know. I just wish he'd been there to see us, to see how happy I am with you. He worried about that. He always worried about whether I was _really_ happy or not. He was always concerned about me; he was the perfect son."

"He'd have made sure you were taken care of properly," he agreed, kissing her hair again, "He would have given me a good talking to, I'm sure."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I don't deserve you, and he would have wanted to make sure I treated you correctly."

"Of course you deserve me, you foolish man."

"No one deserves you. No man in the world deserves you, Isobel."

"Well, you certainly treat me correctly," she told him, snuggling closer to his body, her hand resting on his chest.

"I'm glad you think so," he replied, lifting her hand for a second and pressing a kiss into her knuckles, before letting it lie on his chest again, "That's all I want now, to look after you, to protect you."

"Well, I won't stop you," she told him, "And I'll be here when you need me. You are my family now, my real family. I love you."

"I love you too. Mrs Clarkson."

**The End.**

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